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You Can't Get Here by Walking: Traveling between Coasts

Thursday, July 16, 2015

The prompt for this
piece was an exercise that I did at the Indiana University Writer’s Conference
this year with our poetry teacher, Gabrielle Calvocoressi. A fan of 3 or 4
pronged projects, she challenged us to write a letter that was also a map
leading to (at the retreat) a cemetery to someone we’d not seen in a while. I figured
it was the perfect way to write about my cross-country tour from New Mexico to
Indiana, then Detroit, Toronto, and Chicago before getting back on a 2-day
train trip to Seattle. Check it out!

Dear,

You don’t get here by walking. You start out on a relay
race of buses, trains, and airplanes with squalling babies all aboard. By the
time you arrive, you’ve stripped off all the expectations of this place – you aren’t
that kind of person whose researched and planned every moment of their travel,
though there are moments you wished you were. Having so recently left the
cramped dark city, the red rock cliffs astound you. The open spaces flecked
with turkeys and mousing cats make you tingle with delight. Today, your friend
helped guide a horse off a busy two-lane highway before you went on your way. There
is laughter when you and your friend slather yourselves in mud and parade from
hot spring to hot spring, feeling cleansed and sleepy on the way home. Home.
This is the first state you’ve felt like you could live right when you stepped
foot in it; you’ve fallen in love with the sprawling western-style houses and
everything coated in chili.

When are you getting here? You’ve just missed the
shuttle. The airport is humid. You spend your time re-folding clothes in your
bag on a cushioned bench. When are you getting here? You come upon the tiny
town in less time than you thought and wander where there are no stoplights, looking
for all the greasy food you can handle. When the classes start the next
morning, it finally feels as if you’ve arrived – a solid 6-8 hours a day
drawing doodles and weaving images into plain notebook paper. Who cares if they’re
good? At least they’ve gotten there. When social interaction is too
overwhelming, you disappear to watch Midwestern roller derby, but remember too
late that small town buses don’t run at night. Then you find yourself walking
two miles down a dark road in a town you’re unfamiliar with – a story you tell
only after you’ve survived it.

Landing in a new city across the border, your first
instinct is to go to the cemetery. To the old jail-turned-health-center and the
small farm across the way. You find ponds that inexplicably frighten you;
places where you think they could easily dump a body. Something about the city
tires you. You meet new friends and eat bad Indian food and try to stay out of
the rain. Meet me at the Necropolis, you’d like to say.

This is the last stop. It’s taken you an overwhelming
amount of time to get here – night trains and day trains all conveniently
delayed. By the time you’ve reached your host, you’ve started to flash back to
New York. This is a scene familiar to you: big buildings clustered downtown,
tourists flocking to the park. You get stopped by Christian college folk
conducting surveys. You and your host pull out books and discuss them one by
one. The night before you leave, you take in a play about Muslim women and
post-9/11 Islamophobia that brings tears to your eyes. Then it’s yet another
rain storm and yet another train.

The world is flat until Montana. You catch a glimpse
outside your window when you’re not sleeping or nose-deep in a book. No internet
here, sometimes no cell signal either. Spending two days on a train makes your
teeth go soft; you clench your fists at some of the conversations of your
fellow passengers. But every once in a while they surprise you. The
conservatively dressed Amish people who depart in a cluster midway through. The
older Idaho farm consultant, burned red in the sun, who talks politics with you
into the night. For someone used to speed, this is not the way to go. But
though the mountains slow you down, they also whisper “welcome.”

I'm Jordan Alam, and I'm a writer based out of south Seattle. My blog is focused on healing work through art, activism, and getting up close and personal. If you're looking for my creative and professional work, check out my professional site.

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